


Responsibilities

by mevima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do I have to say it again?” Darrian snarled. “If you’re going to play games, get out. If not, if I can trust you to do what I say, because Maker knows nobody else here would even get past the staring… Zevran, I want to hurt. Whip me. Slap me. Stripe my back. Can I be any more clear?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All week since taking on the Antivan assassin, Darrian had been restless. Travel was enough to take his mind off it, but once the party settled in to camp for the night, the elf could hardly keep still. It was hard to miss the heavy glances he sent Zevran’s way; it would have been easy to interpret them as calculating, perhaps wanting to take the assassin up on his offer to “warm his bed.” Zevran seemed to revel in the attention, wearing as little as was appropriate to exercise and stretch at night until warm trickles of sweat slicked down his bare skin.

So it was to no one’s surprise when Darrian snapped around in his pacing one night, stalking up to where Zevran was combing out his long hair with his fingers and gesturing silently and imperiously towards his tent. Alistair watched with concern as the ex-Crow smirked and slipped through the entry flap. Darrian carefully didn’t look at anyone when he stiffly followed.

Inside, Zevran turned and stretched languorously, offering that self-satisfied smirk again. “You wanted something, my Warden?” he inquired, certain as sin he knew what was coming.

Instead of answering, Darrian continued to pace as well as he could inside the small, confining tent. After a moment of being ignored, Zevran tilted his head curiously and sat. After another, he couldn’t help but ask again, “Did you simply intend to have me heat the tent from inside? Decorate it, perhaps?”

“No,” Darrian snapped, then heaved a sigh and sat as well, though not near enough to the assassin to touch easily. He hesitated once more, and then looked the other man in the eye. “You meant it, what you said when I interrogated you.” It was almost a question.

“I’m sure I don’t quite know what you mean, my Warden,” Zevran hedged flirtatiously, as he often did. “I said a lot of things. Was there something in particular you were inquiring about?”

“About… many things, actually. And warming my bed, as I’m sure everyone has noticed.” Darrian seemed frustrated, and nervous, unsure of what he wanted to say, and the blond elf lowered his lashes, tossing a seductive look his way.

“If you have come to trust me so much as to allow me to do so, why… yes, of course. You are quite the handsome man.” When he reached out to run a hand along Darrian’s cheek, though, the elf smacked it away.

“Not like that,” he snapped, but his flush betrayed him. “I… I don’t know how to ask this, but you’re the… the only one who might possibly…” The city elf bared his teeth, frustrated at his inability to articulate. Finally, as if forcing it from his throat, Darrian growled, “ _Beat me._ ”

Zevran pulled back, for once startled enough to ask, “Excuse me?”

“Do I have to say it again?” Darrian snarled. “If you’re going to play games, get out. If not, if I can trust you to do what I say, because Maker knows nobody else here would even get past the staring… Zevran, I want to _hurt_. Whip me. Slap me. Stripe my back. Can I be any more clear?”

“I… no, my Warden.” Pausing for a moment, Zevran added delicately, “But… I have not been here long. Perhaps you should… let the others know that you are not being assassinated in here? So we are not interrupted?”

Lips pressed together, Darrian hesitated, then nodded, conceding the point. He stood and exited the tent just long enough to snap at Alistair, still standing by the campfire, “I do _not_ wish to be disturbed tonight. For any reason. Do you understand?” Receiving only a bewildered, concerned nod, Darrian ducked back inside and sank down to sit again, stiffly.

The two elves sat quietly for a moment, Zevran’s hands on his knees as he warily watched the man who held his life in his hands. Then, coming to a decision about how this was to go, he ordered, “Bare your chest. Lift your hair, hands on the back of your neck, and turn around.”

Startling a bit at the sudden break in the silence and Zevran’s attitude change, Darrian hesitated only a brief second before doing as he was told. He shivered in a sudden chill, closing his eyes as he heard Zevran rustling around behind him, almost disbelieving this was actually going to happen. How often had he wanted, needed, since being forced to leave the Alienage, and no possible prospects until –

That line of thought cut off sharply as the impact of something leather and heavy – Zevran’s belt, most likely – drove the air from his lungs in a surprised gasp. Darrian quickly straightened himself and lifted his hair further out of the way, bracing himself for more. The first few blows were light, slow, nearly gentle, but as he didn’t make a sound or movement, they began to come harder and faster. Eventually a small cry forced its way past his lips, and he was rewarded with several quick snaps across the same location on his lower back.

Zevran was breathing hard with the combination of exertion and arousal. He wasn’t normally much of a direct sadist in bed, but the way Darrian now arched his back into the blows, stripes showing up bright across his flesh and then melting into the overall reddening the abuse was causing… It definitely affected him. He had been uncertain, at first, how far the Warden wanted this to go, but as Darrian didn’t protest or stop him, or even move other than the heaving chest that had to go with the high, constant cries he was making, the assassin began to put his strength behind the blows. One ear was perked for the sound of an over-protective party member attempting to approach, but he was fairly certain Alistair would listen to his leader’s command. The boy just didn’t have it in him to disobey a direct order.

Finally, a line of blood appeared across his beautiful canvas, and Zevran threw down the belt, reaching forward to fasten one hand over Darrian’s clasped fingers, pressing him forward until he folded practically in half and his forehead rested on the bedroll. With his other hand he scraped gently up and down the abused flesh of his back, immaculate nails effortlessly drawing whimpering cries from the Warden’s mouth. Darrian writhed as if he couldn’t help himself, bucking into and then away from the overstimulation. It was almost idle, and intimate, and Zevran wet his lips with his tongue in appreciation of how easy this man was to master – at least when he wanted to be.

“My Warden,” Zevran began, pausing in his ministrations to allow the elf time to think. After a moment, listening to rasping breaths, he heard a quiet, questioning noise. “Is it enough?”

“ _No._ Never,” Darrian groaned, pressing his back up as if to feel fingernails again. Zevran rewarded him with a sharp scrape down from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, nails digging in and producing an incredible agonized keen that he was sure would bring their companions running. Fortunately, it didn’t.

“Never enough, is it?” Pulling Darrian back by his neck, Zevran tossed him backwards to lie fully across the bedroll, yanking out a gasp as his abused back met rough fabric, and quickly straddled his leader’s hips to hold him down. “You need me to hurt you, my Warden?” he purred, gazing down imperiously at the glazed expression on the other man’s face. Before Darrian could even finish nodding, a strong, calloused hand slapped firmly across his face, and the nod turned into a cry as his cheek instantly began to redden.

Several more dizzying, alternating hard slaps and the elf lay thoroughly defeated before him, head tilted back to expose his neck, chest heaving in tiny sobs. A tear trickled from the corner of his eye, and Zevran doubted he even noticed. Still, it seemed time to stop, and he carefully climbed off, slipping his shirt off in the process so his Warden would encounter only soft skin, not rough fabric. When he met no protests, he pressed himself up against Darrian’s side, gently repositioning the carelessly splayed arms into a more comfortable arrangement and then smoothing his hands delicately down his sides.

“Shh, shh, my Warden…” Zevran murmured, offering small soothing noises as Darrian’s breath finally calmed, the hitching sobs in his throat slowing to become mere whimpers at the slow, sweet brush of fingers against his burning flesh. “Was that what you needed?” He was _achingly_ hard from the activity, but had years of practice ignoring such things and didn’t allow it to interfere.

Voice frozen, Darrian merely nodded into Zevran’s neck, allowing himself the freedom to relax. It had been so long, the world on his shoulders – or at least the country – and he had always needed this, even back in the Alienage, but it wasn’t like he could bring Soris with him when he left… Darrian sighed, wrapped his arms around a strong waist and nuzzled into Zevran’s shoulder, drawing a surprised laugh and a sweetly agonizing, affectionate squeeze.

In the morning, he would be the Grey Warden. In the morning, he would save the world. Now… he could _rest_.


	2. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair confronts Darrian in the morning. Hints of Alistair/M!Warden.

Alistair hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. Listening to the horrific stream of noises coming from Darrian’s tent, he had desperately wanted to break in and stop it, but was too uncertain of himself to defy the other Warden’s order. He arose early enough to watch Zevran emerge from the tent, seemingly unharmed and even humming to himself, but Zevran wasn’t who he was waiting to talk to.

It was quite some time later when Darrian finally came out, blinking in the brightness of daylight. Alistair rehearsed his planned words one more time, then stood from the fire and walked firmly up to the other Warden to stand for what was right.

“What, exactly, did you think you were doing last night?” Darrian immediately tensed in anticipation of a fight, but he certainly didn’t expect the accusation that came next. “I know we don’t exactly trust Zevran, and I didn’t interfere with whatever-that-was like you asked, but I thought we were done with the interrogate-y bits.”

Darrian stared at the other Warden, mouth agape, and then choked out a laugh. “You thought I was… beating Zevran? Maker, Alistair, can’t you tell who’s who?”

“What do you mean? Weren’t you? Why else would… now I _really_ don’t know what’s going on.”

“And you don’t need to.” Darrian’s voice tried to be firm, but this was unfamiliar territory; he didn’t like being reminded of his distressing needs at all, and even asking Zevran to do it, who he was fairly certain would _not_ ask uncomfortable questions, had been difficult enough.

“But – if that was you I heard – you were practically _screaming,_ ” Alistair protested. “That can’t be right.”

Losing patience, the elf snapped, “Of course it’s not _right_. Apparently people don’t have any say over whether they’re right in the head or not.”

"I… don’t understand," Alistair frowned. “But even – even forgetting about whatever that was, you invited the _assassin_ into your tent. He could have killed you!”

"Oh? And who else is there?" Darrian snarled defensively. "Would _you_ have done it? If I had said, oh, Alistair!" He raised his voice to a mocking falsetto. "You big, strong, handsome man! I beg of you, beat me bloody and screaming!" He watched the human wince at his blunt words, and then demanded, "Would you have done anything but stare, stutter, and run?"

Silenced briefly, Alistair merely shook his head, and then added, "I hope I wouldn’t mock you like… no. No, you’re probably right. I wouldn’t have known what to do with that. I still don’t. Darrian… is there… anything I can do? To help?"

"Why, do you want a go?" Seeing the hurt and confusion in Alistair’s eyes, Darrian immediately regretted snapping, but he pushed forward anyway, needing to voice his discontent. “You could actually lead for once. Maker knows I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t _be_ here, Alistair, you know that? Duncan conscripted me because I can _fight_ , not lead! He chose me because I wreaked _vengeance_. Does that sound like a Warden Commander to you?”

Face twisted in worry, Alistair almost had a chance to respond before Darrian began ranting again, turning to pace back and forth in his furor. “If the world were what it was supposed to be, I would have been hung months ago for murdering the man who raped my friend. Instead, hundreds of people are dead, and it’s up to me – _me!_ – to stop thousands more. _You_ should be the leader, your royal highness, not a nobody elf from the slums of Denerim, but you refuse to take that responsibility, so it’s up to me.”

“I – I don’t… know what to say,” Alistair murmured faintly, uncomfortably aware that Darrian had lashed out precisely at his failings. “I’m… sorry you’re having trouble, because of me. I’ll try… I’ll try to help lead.”

“Great.” Now that his passion had wound down, Darrian avoided looking Alistair in the eye. He knew this direct, bitter offense wasn’t how he normally spoke to his companions, and he’d probably apologize later, but the thought curled around his tongue like a sour taste. “Just… let’s just get going. Oh, damn,” he added, reminded by thoughts of camp preparations that his top half was only clothed in a deliberately loose shirt. “I’m going to need some help getting my armor on.”

“Help? But you wear leather.”

“Yes, well.” Darrian rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. “I’m not exactly at my best this morning.”

“Oh… right,” Alistair blushed. “I’ve been up for hours. I have time to help.”

As the two men headed towards Darrian’s tent to retrieve his armor, the elf told himself that his suggestion had nothing to do with the desire to shock a little innocence out of his fellow Warden. He gestured Alistair towards the pile of loose armor near his pack as he pulled the shirt off, sighing at the brush over bruised flesh.

The sudden gasp was very obviously Alistair spying the state of Darrian’s abused back, so the elf peered over his shoulder at the other man. “Is it that bad? I don’t exactly have a mirror in here.”

“It’s… you may want a poultice. Maker, this is what you were doing?” Hesitantly, Alistair stepped up with the leather cuirass clutched in one hand, and as if he couldn’t help himself, reached out with a gauntlet to trace the vertical stripe of dried blood left by Zevran’s fingernails. Darrian hissed in a startled breath, and Alistair quickly yanked his hand back. “Sorry! Sorry!” he apologized, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt, precisely,” Darrian corrected, ignoring the tiny burn the contact had left across his skin. “It’s… oversensitive.” Giving in to the urge to fluster Alistair just a bit more, he added, eyes slipping closed to better imagine the sensation, “If you kept doing that, just brushed your fingers over my back, you’d have me a gibbering mess in no time.”

“Um, I…” Alistair coughed, bright red and unsure what to do with suddenly fluttering hands. “I can’t… imagine that’s good for battle.”

With an amused snort, Darrian turned to face him again. “Battle is completely different, I assure you.” He nodded back towards the pile. “There are a couple of poultices in my pack.”

"Of course.” Laying the piece of armor out onto the floor for after, Alistair moved to rummage through Darrian’s pack. The healing poultices were near the top, and he returned quickly.

"I could drink it, but it’ll do much better work if you just spread it on the worst stripes,” Darrian instructed matter-of-factly, spinning to present his back for healing and lifting his long, dark hair out of the way.

“You _want_ me to touch your back again?” Alistair squeaked, face flushing red just as he had recovered from the last time.

“Well, I certainly can’t do it, and it probably does need the healing.” Darrian eyed the other Warden over his shoulder, amused. He reflected that he really, really shouldn’t be teasing Alistair, but his blushing innocence was too much _fun._ “If you prefer, you could go find Zevran and send him in here instead.”

“No, no, that’s perfectly all right,” Alistair protested quickly. “He’s had enough chance to kill you as it is.” He removed his gauntlets and discarded them next to the cuirass, then squeezed some healing potion out onto his fingers, and Darrian faced forward, closing his eyes in anticipation.

Even ready for the sensation, the elf couldn’t help the breathy sigh that escaped his lips as he felt the cool liquid smoothing over his back and burning its way into inflamed flesh. Soris had done this a couple of times, usually with oil or soapy water instead of expensive healing poultices, and it always felt wonderful to have someone minister to his injuries, purposefully inflicted or not.

Darrian forgot, just for a moment, that it was blushing, flustered Alistair tending him this time, and didn’t restrain his reactions. He moaned, tilting his head up to arch his back into the strong hands drawing out and soothing his pain, and his hips rolled backward.

The touch jerking away from his back was a cold splash of reality. Darrian stiffened, cursing himself even before Alistair stammered, “I… I have to go,” and fled the tent.

“Fuck,” Darrian groaned, and then his gaze fell on the bedroll, with his still-unworn armor, and Alistair’s discarded gauntlets. “ _Fuck!_ ”


End file.
